


out of a thousand lives

by pissedofsandwich



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Black Mirror - Hang the DJ AU, Dystopian Dating, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-27 08:03:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13243995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pissedofsandwich/pseuds/pissedofsandwich
Summary: "Let's hear it, then. Let's hear all the conspiracies.""It's not a conspiracy! It's actually possible, okay. How did they determine the 99.8% accuracy? We were only ever told of the statistics, never the method. They could just be spewing some bullshit, throwing us from one dude after another, until we got so tired and jaded. And then when we reached that point, there, they give us the 'perfect match.' But we were already too worn down to think otherwise, so we just accept it.""... yeah, something tells me being a skeptic doesn't suit you."Or: In a world where falling in love is measured in timed meetings, it only takes Shane and Ryan twelve hours to fall in love - and longer than that for the system to put them back together again. And it only takes one night for it all to fall apart.





	out of a thousand lives

**Author's Note:**

> so it is based on the Hang the DJ episode of black mirror, but you dont need to watch that to understand. this is basically a retelling of that episode, with shane and ryan, and a twist. this work hasnt been checked for grammatical errors, so if you do find some, please do lemme know!
> 
> that being said, shane and ryan pls dont read this. they dont belong to me, black mirror doesn't belong to me no matter how much i want it. happy reading!

**i. twelve hours**

_Ryan_

* * *

 

Coach—the little white device in his hand, that's what his brain tells him it's called—tells him that his match is a man named Shane. He will be sitting in a booth in the middle of the room, just in the line of vision for the security wearing black near the entrance. It's Ryan's first time in the system, and he's feeling uncharacteristically nervous. He knows he's confident, he knows he's got a mouth on him that either always gets him in trouble, he just knows that it is not like him to be nervous over meeting a potential life partner. 

Which is curious, since it's his first time on the system.

"Coach, how will I know it's him?" Ryan asks tentatively into the white circular device.

The soothing woman's voice replies, "By this picture." Ryan looks down at the image projected: a man in his early thirties, nicely trimmed beard, with kind, nervous eyes, wearing a blue denim jacket. Ryan spots him immediately, mostly because he stands out. When their eyes meet, Shane stands up, abruptly, almost knocking over the table in the process, and Jesus Christ, he's so _freakishly_ tall. He has to practically bend down to shake Ryan's hand.

"So," Shane says as they sit down.

"So," Ryan parrots.

Shane drums his long fingers on the table. Ryan watches the movement. He feels—like a fish out of water. He tells Shane as much. The taller man laughs, and corners of his eyes crinkle in the most endearing way possible.

"Me too," Shane admits, a little shy smile, private. "My, uh, coach tells me that I'm not supposed to be. Like, I should be all— _suave_ , and, charming, but, uh." Shane looks sheepish. 

"Hey, it's chill, man," Ryan says. "It's my first time on the system, too. I've got no idea what I'm supposed to do."

Shane breathes a sigh of relief. "Oh, thank fuck, 'cos it's mine, too."

Ryan lets out a laugh. "Yeah? Well, that's good, we can be clueless together."

-

The system is infallible. It records your consciousness: every thought you've ever had, every crazy idea, every fantasy, spoken and unspoken, every dream, every daydream. It scans its thousands of users to find the most compatible person, to then set up a date with, until it matches the person with their ultimate pair—soulmates, if you will. That's the goal for everyone here, living within the walls of the system.

Before, in the lives forgotten outside the walls, finding your one true love isn't so easy. Humans have to make do without the assistance of the system. All on their own: meeting possible matches, finding out that they're not compatible, deciding to break up with them. It's a world that seems so far away to Ryan. Unthinkable, even. Now that he's here, right in front of Shane, it feels like the system is all that Ryan knows.

"Shall we—shall we check our expiry date?" Ryan suggests. Coach has advised him to do so. Knowing how long a session will last lets the pair know how best to determine the lengths of their compatibility.

"Oh, now?" Shane blinks.

"Yeah, I mean, when else?" Ryan says. He puts Coach on his palm, facing up. Coach blinks back the words, _Tap to reveal_ at him. "We gotta tap at the same time."

Shane nods, and pulls up his own Coach. "I'm gonna count to three—" 

"So, is it on three or after three?"

"On three? People usually do on three, right?" 

"I don't know? It's usually after three for me?"

"What? That's weird," Shane remarks.

Ryan raises his eyebrows. "Uh, really?" He tries to find any information in his brain, something to supply an answer whether or not it is weird, like Shane says. He comes up with nothing, but he knows, deep down that it is, in fact, not weird. "Let's just do after three."

"So... that's four, then?" Shane says.

"Technically, yes."

"So... counting to four?" Shane asks, a lilt to his voice that makes it sound like he's teasing Ryan. Despite that, Ryan feels the corners of his mouth turning upward. 

"Okay, fine, whatever—" Ryan relents. "Any second we waste is not going to make the time any longer, so—on three."

Shane chuckles. "Okay," he says. "One, two, three." 

Ryan gently taps the device's screen. "Twelve hours," he reads, his chest deflating a little. As soon as the words are out, the screen shows a countdown. It is now 11:59:59, and keeps going down. "I—I didn't realize it would go down like that."

"Yeah," Shane says. 

The waiter comes with their food. Ryan's got pasta, and Shane has steak. Ryan's favorite food is not pasta. "Well," Ryan shrugs, "We'll just eat quickly, then."  
  
Shane's returning smile is heartwarming.  
  
-

The vehicle takes them to a wooden cottage, afterwards. Ryan looks up to see the number 405 written on the door. Ryan presses his hand to the lock, and the door hisses open. Shane, being the freakishly tall human that he is, has to duck to avoid hitting his head.

Ryan laughs. "Do you have to do that often?"

"Only on first dates," Shane winks, and it only makes Ryan laugh harder. God, he doesn't know what's so funny, but he just had to laugh.

The front porch has a two-person swing on it, situated between two potted ficus trees. The cottage is, surprisingly, spacious, consisting of one very comfy lounging area with a crackling fireplace, that paved the way to the bedroom. One large bed, and soft blue comforters. The bathroom's tiles are marble, with a shower attached to the bathtub, and an impressive selection of scented bodywash. They slowly make their way to the bedroom, but make no further movement to sit on the bed. There is a pregnant silence between them, so thick it's almost nauseating, and Ryan's hands continue getting clammier. 

"I—I'm—going to use the bathroom," Shane says. 

"Sure, sure, yeah," Ryan nods, almost too quickly. "And I'm going to the porch," he pauses, thinking hard, "to—to check out _ghosts_."

Shane's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, and Ryan mentally kicks himself. Stupid, dumb, _humiliating_ —

"Sure," Shane says, and disappears into the bathroom. 

Ryan all but _bolts_ to the front porch, and slaps himself on the forehead. "I am so fucking stupid."

"That is incorrect," his Coach helpfully assures.

"Ugh, shut the fuck up!" Ryan groans. "That was so damn awkward."

"That is correct," Coach remarks.

Ryan wants to chuck the white devil across the damn lake. "I'm not sure what my instruction is. Am I supposed to just— _go_ at it?"

"Question unclear."

"Jesus Christ—" Ryan sighs exasperatedly. "I mean, _you know_ —" If he makes some crude gestures with his fingers, would Coach understand? Can Coach see?

"I do not."

"Fuck!" Ryan yells angrily, "I mean—sex. Fuck. Canoodle. Whatever your system calls it. External sexual organs going into internal sexual organs—"

"You do not have to engage in sexual acts if you do not wish to. There are various ways of getting to know one another that does not include sexual acts. _Talking_ , for example,” Coach answers, and Ryan swears it sounds condescending. “The system only wishes the best for its users. It only compels you to test the extend of your compatibility, for the purposes of data-gathering, in the quest of pairing you off with your ultimate match." Yeah, it still sounds so condescending.

"Sure, yes," Ryan rolls his eyes. "Have sex for— _science_. Or statistics. Whatever." He pockets Coach into his coat and takes a deep breath. Why the hell is he so nervous?

He comes back in just as Shane exits the bathroom, still ducking because he's a goddamn giraffe. A really attractive one at that.

They approach one another slowly. Ryan sees Shane slipping his own Coach into his denim jacket—it seems that Shane has also been communicating with the device, which puts Ryan at ease. At least he's not the only one who feels nervous.

"Hi," Ryan says, when they finally meet in the middle. “Maybe we should sit down,” he continues, gesturing to the lounge area.

“That’s a good idea, yeah,” Shane agrees, sounding a little bit breathless. Once they’re seated, Shane regards him with a smile. "You know, I didn't think I heard it right, but—did you say _ghosts_?"

Ryan winces. "Yes?"

"That's really funny," Shane says. His smile looks so inviting. Shane's shuffling close on the couch, that if Ryan were to lean over, their fingers could collide. Their mouths too.

"Why is that?" Ryan leans in, right into Shane's body heat. 

"Because they're not real," Shane says, so resolutely. "Obviously."

Ryan promptly leans away.

"Oh—wait." Shane hangs his arms on the sides of his body. "You—you believe in ghosts."

"What proof do you have that they _don't_ exist?" Ryan argues, arms crossing on his chest. 

"What proof do you have that they _do_?" Shane shoots back, but he's still grinning. Their argument is going to be playful, Ryan realizes, and he comes back again, to Shane's body heat, and pokes at his chest.

" _Ow_ ,” Shane rubs at where Ryan had just poked him. “You're like a kindergartener. And appropriate, too, 'cos you—you're bite-sized."

"You're just too tall!" Ryan splutters.

"You're just short," Shane says, "And ghosts aren't real. There! Two undeniable facts: you're short, and ghosts aren't real."

"Okay, mean giraffe, how can you say that they aren't?"

"This is the future, Ryan, people transfer consciousness to the Cloud. Dead people go to literal Cloud heaven, they don't go around the city haunting your pizza place! They're chilling, up there, in the virtual city of—of, I don't know, the roaring 80's of San Junipero!" Shane says.

Ryan starts indignantly, "Okay, first of all, let's get this straight: ghosts and consciousness are two very different things. Ghosts, they’re pre-existing beings, but they don’t occupy this dimension—they’re like, energy, in a way, and they can take the form of a human—”

“So can a particularly good video editing skills, Ryan,” Shane cuts in.

“Okay, if they’re not real, then how can you explain why so many isolated cultures on different parts of Earth have some sort of norms that are based on not pissing off ghosts?”

“They’re ancient people, Ryan,” Shane says incredulously. “They’re probably the same type of person who—who—who still use rocks to cut fruit! They probably haven’t even fully grasped the science behind pooping, and you—you think these people would understand ghosts as some kind of—energy? What you’re talking about is just legend, and almost all of the time, it is not true.”

“Why do you discredit an entire people just because they cut fruit with rocks, huh? Ancient people are smarter than they are! Only reason why they all sound stupid and mystical is because colonialism wants them to look that way! If it weren’t for these ancient people, you wouldn’t have knives in your kitchen today!” Ryan insists. “Look, there are evidence, okay? Apparitions, visions, footage of it—both scientific and anecdotes—”

“Scientific?” Shane butts in. “You can’t say science—”

“Why? Why can’t I?” Ryan shoots back.

“Because it’s _not_ science!”

They end up debating way well into the night. Somehow, they've managed to migrate to the bed, sometime during the night, and fallen asleep together. In the morning, they're woken up by the soft ping of their respective Coaches, a reminder that their time has expired. Blearily, Ryan opens his eyes, trying to remember where they left their conversation. While their debate does not produce a winner, it does establish one thing: Ryan is a believer and Shane is a skeptic.

Ryan slowly untangles himself from the mess of limbs the two of them have become on the bed, still fully clothed. He hears Shane yawn behind him as he gets up to take his coat. Shane's eyes are still a little bit red, his bed hair extraordinarily messy, and yet when Ryan looks at him, he only feels content. Like if the timer suddenly goes up and they have to spend a year in this cottage, he wouldn't mind.

"You have to immediately evacuate the house," his Coach tells him, as if it could read his mind. "Or the security will escort you.”

"We were just leaving," Ryan tells it.

Two separate vehicles arrive at their door exactly as they exit the cottage. Shane's bed hair is combed down haphazardly with his own hand. The look on his face is soft and strange at the same time.

"I had a really nice time," Shane says, like it's a confession. His fingers slowly clasp around Ryan's, and don't let go even as Ryan starts to walk away.

"Me too," Ryan says, quiet, but so sure, like he's never been so sure of anything else in the world, except for how unwilling he is to let go of Shane’s grip.

Eventually, he has to. But even as he's getting into his own vehicle, he's still looking back—at the opposite direction that Shane's vehicle is going, to the west side of the great, white wall.


End file.
